The Kallig Chronicles - First Chronicle
by The Voice of Reason is Eternal
Summary: The First Chronicle of Kallig, which spans the entirety of the Sith Inquisitor Prologue and Act 1. The Protagonist of the Chronicles of Kallig is Sha'al, a Sith who tries his best to maintain some semblance of honour, but finds himself making more and more morally ambiguous choices. There are few truly heroic characters, and many snarky and affable sociopaths.
1. The Arrival

**The First Chronicle of Kallig**

 **Chapter One: The Arrival**

3643 BBY: Imperial Transport Inbound for Korriban

 _ **S**_ ha'al tried not to fall asleep, tried not to dream, but he could not stop the memories. He was the only passenger in the transport, the lights were dim and it had been a twenty hour trip. His eyes slipped closed, and he drifted off into his past. It was five years ago, just after he'd turned 18 years old on Korriz. Lord Medriaa had just perished under mysterious circumstances. His father, Rikel, had been one of Medriaa's doctors, his mother, Meena, one of his administrators. When Darth Angral had taken over Korriz, he had all the servants who resisted the changes he was making enslaved. Meena had objected to the removal of so many competent administrators, and he recalled vaguely the destruction of Lord Medriaa's statues. An hour she asked Darth Angral to reconsider, their whole family had been pummeled out of their home and into the street. They were stripped of their clothing and dragged naked through the city gate until they reached what had used to be the Blurrg pens, but were now used for the increased slave stock. The pens had been cleaner when they were used for the Blurrgs, although they had smelled just as bad. His head bounced against the bulkhead, and he eyes flashed open, from the turbulence he suspected they were beginning their descent into Korriban's atmosphere. He slapped his face to try and fend off sleep, but to no avail, his eyes closing once more. He saw his father's face, round and covered in black stubble, his thin upper lipped covered by his bushy moustache. They were repairing an astromech droid for Angral's son Tarnis, who would be leaving soon on some sort of classified mission. He'd noticed that Tarnis had been standing in front of a mirror, practicing different accents. As they were finishing up, his father stumbled over a hydrospanner Sha'al had forgotten to pick up and fell on his hip with a sickening *crunch.* Rikel told him not to worry, that it wasn't his fault and that he'd be fine, but the dread and guilt merely built as he helped his father limp back to the slave huts.

His father had died the following month, the slave drivers did not allow give him time to heal and so a small strip of cartilage that had peeled inside the hip joint broke free and poked, and pinched and stabbed him. He was in constant pain, unable to sleep more than an hour a night. His father lost weight quickly, folds of skin hanging from his neck and arms, his midnight black hair turned grey and dark puffy bags formed under his eyes. The end came on the hottest day of the year when his father had slumped against a tree, drenched in sweat. He did not cry; he just lay on top of his father, his head pressed into the chest of what he used to call "Dad." A dozen or so minutes later Barso, the worst of the slaver drivers had roused him by whipping him until he ran from the tree. Hours later, after he had finished his labour for the day, he arrived "home" at their hut, which housed fifteen slaves and was scarcely big enough for three. "Mother, mother, father—" he could not force the words out, his eyes water and his knees shook. He did not need to finish the sentence for his mother to see what had happened on his face. She had dreaded the inevitable for days, nay weeks now and she knew the sorrow on her son's face could only mean one thing. "No!" She gasped, her eyes instantly wet. The other slaves barely glanced; someone died almost every week lately, "it's the heat," they'd say as if they were being blamed. Except it wasn't the heat, it was that shutta Barso, under Medriaa the slave drivers who were cruel to the slaves to the point of reducing productivity risked becoming slaves if caught. But Angral was busy with some project involving something called Godera, and didn't bother to police Korriz. _I can't blame him, until I was a slave I never cared about they were treated either_.

Meena could not stop sobbing; she wrapped her arms around herself and rocked back and forth. "Mom! Mom! Mom we've got to bury Dad before the Sleens eat him," She did not respond to him. "Mom! We can't let the Sleens eat father's corpse!" At the used of the word corpse she wailed louder. "Mother, come! Come with me!" He tugged at her, but she would not budge. He tugged again and she fell onto her side. She continued wailing and rocking back and forth, although she was not able to rock much on her side. "Mother, m— Meena, listen to me. I must bury father. She still did not respond, "Mother, I know how you worry when you can't me or fath—" he stopped, suddenly aware of how difficult it was to accept reality. He sucked in his cheeks and bit them until just before drawing blood, using the pain as a distraction to stop himself from sobbing. "I don't want to worry you! Please repeat what I've just said! Please!" She stopped wailing, and relative silence of the hut compared to the awful din just a moment before made Sha'al even more uncomfortable. She whipped her head to look at him and her eyes seemed…. off. Something was wrong – more than just the obvious – her pupils actually appeared to be stretched like a Cathar's and there was a crimson red-orange tinge around her pupils invading the chestnut irises he knew so well. "Bury! Bury! Bury! Buried alive! All of us! We've been buried alive!" He bolted and ran through the open door, knocking one his fellow slaves down the wooden stairs. As he ran through the sparse yellow grass a strap on his right sandal tore and so he kicked them both off. The wailing resumed and faded as the hut disappeared into the distance. He tried not to think about his mother's eyes – that wasn't the Meena he knew.

When he got to the tree he froze, in the dark he did not see his father. His legs shook, more from grief than hunger, but not eating lunch or dinner was only compounding the situation. His mind raced even faster than his heart. "The Sleens must have already taken him… taken all that we had left of him, away from us!" he whispered, catching his breath. He knew that Sleens are more much territorial and aggressive after a meal; he knew he should be on guard but he couldn't muster the energy. From somewhere in his mind he heard his voice, soft and childlike, _I wish they'd eat me too_. "NO! Despair is death! Never, ever surrender to despair!" his voiced carried far beyond the trees, to the gravel path from the city where two flashlights lit the ground. He was repeating a lesson he'd learned even before he was a slave, and had seen proven many time since then. You could see when someone had quit living; it was as if they just stopped being there. He was the best in the slave camp at predicting who would give up next. No, he corrected himself, not predicting: knowing. He had some special skill at reading the hearts of others. He could touch someone in the grip of a powerful emotion and feel a small flick of whatever they were experiencing.

His eyes adjusted to the moonless dark and he saw his father. His body was slightly bloated, but unmistakable. He heard a faint buzzing and saw flaws walking over his lips. He swatted them away and a newly born maggot ended up on his hand. He almost screamed in anger at how the maggots were violating the dignity of his beloved father, he ground his teeth together, stifling the obscenities he wished to bellow. That these things would make a meal of Rikel was unthinkable, and yet… burying him in the soil would do nothing to prevent this. "Wormfood, buried or not, we're all wormfood sooner or later." Coming to his senses he realized that in his haste he had forgotten to take a shovel to dig a grave. He would have to run back to the hut if he couldn't find something to use. He heard voices faintly in the distance, "Barso you sure that piece of crap is rotting out here? I smell something mighty awful coming from the pond." Sha'al sunk on his belly, and flattened himself as much as he could without making a noise. He didn't recognize the voice of the slave driver with Barso, but he didn't need to, they were all cruel, stupid, cowards. "I keep telling you, you little schutta, it was one of those trees, and as we haven't a minute to waste, if we want some meat to feed to ma' Akky." The idea of Barso's pet Akk Dog eating Rikel made Sha'al's stomach churn, he could taste gastric acid rising, and for grateful he'd missed lunch and dinner. Barso's flashlight flickered, "Fierfek it! The damn thing was just recharged a month ago!" Barso stomped his feet, the greasy slave driver having a temper tantrum like a small child. "Let's go Barso, the Sleens are coming," said the other slave driver. Barso followed his slightly less stupid associate back to the city. Sha'al exhaled sharply; he hadn't realized he was holding his breath. He'd have to dig the grave with his bare hands in the dark. He dragged his father next to a spot where the ground seemed relatively soft and got to work.

Hours later as the sun rose he had just finished the grave, some of his fingernails had peeled back and his hands were red and brown from the blood and dirt. He would not get back to the huts in time to start the long work day, and he would be punished for his lateness. But he vowed that no slave master would ever find where he'd buried his beloved father. As he lifted his beloved father into the grave, his eyes teared up as he viewed him in light of dawn and– an extra-large wave of turbulence slammed his head into the bulkhead again, waking him. "ATTENTION NEW ACOLYTE. YOU HAVE ARRIVED ON KORRIBAN. PLEASE EXIT THE TRANSPORT," the robotic announcement was followed by the shuttle lights turning on for the first time in twenty hours. He shivered as he set foot upon the birthplace of the Sith, he hadn't realized how cold he was until he felt Korriban's warmth.

 _Without strife, your victory has no meaning. Without strife, you do not advance. Without strife, there is only stagnation._  
–Uthar Wynn. 3956


	2. Slave, slave, slave

**Chapter Two: Slave, Slave, Slave…**

3643 BBY: Korriban

" _ **Y**_ ou are the slime, the filth, the wretches of society. You are what Sith Lords scrape off their boots. I don't know why the Sith Empire even bothers with you. Miserable curs. They'd be wiser to give you shovels and have you dig your own graves." This Overseer Harkun was quickly proving to be both singularly unimpressive and fanatically close-minded. If my first obstacle on Korriban is to be an elitist Sith, he could at least try and bit more interesting, thought Sha'l. He supposed that the thin ginger goatee hanging from Harkun's chin like a greasy dollop of dried tomato sauce was at least something amusing.

He stifled a yawn as he realized Harkun was still droning on incessantly. "Lord Zash has tasked me with sorting through you refuse to find one worthy of being her apprentice, and I intend to do just that." All that Harkun was missing were little specks of white foam on the corners of his mouth to complete the image of him as the perfect elitist, xenophobic, bigot.

 _And yet again the strange Sith obsession with metal shoulders. Is it something I'll be afflicted with too, once I'm immersed in the Dark Side?_ Perhaps it was some sort of mental illness that tainted ones fashion sense as payment for great power. _If so, then can I just cut off one of my arms instead? It would look better._ Harkun finally finished slapping muscles in his mouth together to produce unpleasant noise that passed for speech amongst feeble-minded bullies.

One of his rival acolytes, a cute red haired human who was just more than a slip of a girl, approached him tentatively. "Watch your back, friend. And don't worry. It'll be all right. He can't kill us all." He tried to reach out with the Force to feel for artifice or sincerity, but he still couldn't force his empathic aptitude to work at will – not yet anyway. "Thanks. That means a lot coming from a beautiful girl." He said forcing himself to smile; he couldn't make the smile reach his eyes, so he settled for making his dimples bigger. "Heh. You're cute. Just watch that you don't get yourself killed." _Cute! Is cute good? I think she's cute, does she mean the same thing when she says cute? Or is it some sort of different cute that people from her planet use?_ By the time Sha'l thought of a response to her comment she had already left the room. Now instead of a cute girl, the vile Harkun was standing before him.

"Now, slave, for your trial: There's a hermit named Spindrall who lives in the tomb of Ajunta Pall in the Valley of the Dark Lords. Spindrall's a lunatic, but Lord Zash sees him as some kind of prophet. Once you find him, he will test you." So Harkun didn't hold this hermit in the same regard as Zash. Based on what he'd seen of Harkun so far, that probably meant that Spindrall had subtle powers of foresight or something similar that Harkun had written off in a combination of arrogance and ignorance. _Funny how those two seem to go hand in hand._

Exiting the spaceport, he basked in the light of Korriban's sun. It was an older star; tinted persimmon orange. A pool of blood red light spilled over his feet. He looked up at the Sith Academy and realized that the red light was being refracted from the vertex of pyramidal structure. On almost any other world he'd suspect it was some sort of red prism cut into the crest of the imposing institution. On Korriban however, he had a strong suspicion that it was the cumulative effect of millennia of dark rituals and trials by blood. He was right, though he knew it not. He sauntered down the steps and felt the heat from the sand permeate through his thick leather boots. If a human went barefoot here they'd be picking the last few scraps of flesh off their feet by nightfall. Sand trembled several feet away from him; long stringy shapes forming under the scorching sand. He back away just as a scaly, bulbous creature exploded from below; pellets of hot sand stinging his face and the back of his hands. The creature looked like a seven foot tall maggot with six worm-like lower appendages and two upper appendages that resembled pincers. It lacked a distinct head as far as he could see; instead it had a mouth. The teeth dripped mucous down its throat; there was easily a hundred of the sharp jagged teeth. They formed a series of rings that seemed to spread down it's gullet like an infection. It was not a mouth made for killing quickly, but slowly grinding and shredding its prey so it could more easily digest them. He drew his vibrosword and felt his palms begin to sweat.

He approached the creatures with trepidation. He had never even held a vibrosword before; he thumbed the power button and found the lack of a vibration sensation unsettling. There was quiet buzzing sound, but the hilt wasn't rattling in the slightest. He also knew nothing about these giant maggot like mouths with wormlike arms; what if they were lightning fast with razor sharp teeth? What if they spat poison? What if they could wrap themselves around you and crush you to death? One noticed him and he gripped the vibrosword tightly with both hands. He swung the sword and cleaved the vile thing into two, trying not to blink. He stared dumbfounded and realized he'd been holding his breath. He loosened his grip on the sword and approached the slug. What he presumed was its head had rolled three feet away from what he presumed its body. Beheading kill them as surely as it did most humanoids apparently, and no parasites or infant worms jumped from the corpse to borrow into his flesh. Although one could never entirely sure he supposed, perhaps he was inhaling in little eggs, which would spread through lungs and make a nest of his internal organs. He managed not to visualize the painful death that would surely result from that. He saw two green sacs, he was sure they were venom filled. Everyone who cared for him on Korriz had described Korriban as a world where life exists only to bring death. Where nothing lives, save to kill. He'd been warned over and over by Lord Angral that the trials would not be easy, physically, or emotionally. But even Angral had reluctantly admitted that regarding the latter, what Sha'l had endured in the year following his father's death, even the Trials of the Sith would likely fail to match.

Adrenaline coursed through as he ran straight into a mob of disgusting bugs and swung wildly. His excitement ran and as his blade sunk in the center of a large slug's carapace, a smaller one slashed him above his right ear. The bleeding slowed quickly, but the wound would scar. The gash had torn hair follicles out, leaving what would become a smooth line. Best not to end his first day looking like he was the goalie for the Rotworms, he thought with a self-deprecating smirk, and descended into the Tomb of Ajunta Pall.

There was a soldier clad in the ever-comforting black and red of the Imperial Armed Forces. The soldier snapped his rifle to the best of his chestguard with a metallic click that echoed off the walls. "Excuse me, acolyte. Sergeant Cormun, Fifth Infantry company, Korriban regiment. Can I—can I talk to you?" The Sergeant's discomfort matched Sha'l's own at being in a drafty, dark, damp tomb. As Sha'l nodded his affirmation, he heard a faint scream in the distance. "I'm here commanding a hard target mission to exterminate k'lor'slug's in this tomb. They're… horrific things. Mouths bigger than your head." Cormun jerked his head twice in the direction of the scream as if to gesture at a subordinate being slowly eaten alive. "I've lost three squads of good men fighting them. They come in packs—they just… they'll swallow a man whole. "We managed to get explosives to all of the egg chambers, but the k'lor'slugs were all over us before we could detonate them." So far the only thing of interest to Sha'l was that the loathsome giant maggots were called k'lor'slugs, some sort of portmanteau of Korriban and slug he supposed. An apt name for the abhorrent cretins.

"I confess, I'm not particularly excited about plunging into a nest of kor—," he paused after mispronouncing the name, "k'lor'slugs and handling explosives in the dark of a cave possibly haunted by the deranged ghosts of Sith Lords." Sha'l didn't know if there were any malevolent spirits in the tomb, but as this was bloody Korriban he considered laughing the idea off to be the same as slitting his own throat. "Well, yes sir I understand you might feel that way. However, even the most powerful Sith need the backing of the Imperial Military to accomplish their goals. And well.. while some Lords are of the mind that they don't need us non-Force users to win wars, it's been my experience that if the men don't trust you, then you end up exposed to a Lord they do trust." Cormun let his hands overlap between his legs; as if he expected Sha'l to try and punt him in the crotch for his not-so-subtle suggestion. "Well, I'd hate to let the men down. Where can I find this egg chamber my fine soldier?" he said faking a smile and trying to sound as chipper as possible. Whether it had any effect or whether the sergeant was merely being equally artificially he did not know, but the wearied warrior seemed to gain vitality at the acolyte's consent to his plan. "The chamber is down the hall to the left and then down the stairs. After that you can't miss it." The idea of the eggs being impossible to miss did nothing to make Sha'l more comfortable; in fact it achieved the opposite effect. Still, his word was his bond so he made his way down the hall and took a left at the staircase slicked with blood.

Once he reached the bottom of the stairway he could see easily fifty eggs glowing and pulsing audibly. Stepping over an infantry blaster rifle with yellow k'lor'slug blood mixed with what appeared to be red human blood to create an orange stain that made the recently dropped weapon look rusted and oddly appropriate for the floor of a catacomb in a state of disrepair. In the center of the room was a small device he presumed was the explosive, and it was displaying steady green light. There were no bodies around it, so either the grunts had been pushed back, or more likely there were larger slugs nearby that ate all traces of them. Approaching his goal he noted that the cracked stone blocks were slick with green fecal matter and a hint of blood splatter. A shattered eggshell crunched underfoot and every single egg exploded as newborn slugs poked through the shells. _Oh. Kriff. This._

When I see Cormun again he better tell every soldier he knows that I fought through slug shit and dozens and dozens of vile worms for the good of the men. He noted that while there were more disgusting bugs than he had though – closer to one hundred than fifty – they also seemed to be blind and their teeth were not as sharp. Still, quantity had a quality all its own and dying ignominiously to a swarm of slugs renders one just as dead as dying to a large acklay. He could see down their throats as they approached him, their small teeth resembling a particularly nasty throat infection, more bubbles of pus than blades. The incubatory slime that they were coated with reeked like a fish left to rot in a hot room for days. Stifling a gagging reflex, the somewhat bitter acolyte thumbed on his vibrosword at the first vermin to throw itself at him. Unlike their older brethren, the infantile pest did not cleave in half, but torn open and splashed across his blade like rotten fruit. Specks ended up dotting his red robes yellow and a singular drop landed on his lip. His eyes widened in anger and he smashed his foot down on the detonator. There was a loud beep followed by more in quickening succession. Drawing on his disgust and revulsion he swallowed the urge to vomit in his throat and mixed the feeling with anger in his palms. In the span of half a second he built the charge up and let it loose at the slimy, slithering worms. More than half died instantly, and he regretted even bothering with the explosive. What was the point after all if he could just kill them all from a distance and not get dirty? As if to answer his unspoken question, two nine foot tall k'lor'slugs dropped down from the ceiling. Alright, that would be the point. He ran back to the stairs and leaped deftly over the blaster rifle. There was a loud explosion behind him and the room filled with yellow mist. He ran, not from the explosion, but from the wretched cloud of essence of k'lor'slug.

After what seemed like an hour of aimlessly searching for a hint of where he was supposed to go, he heard the clashing of blades coming from a narrow passageway. Walking down the pitch black stairway, he entered a room with six black cloaked force-sensitives lazily hacking away at practices dummies or focusing their hate. None of them paid any attention to him. Past the dueling circle and training square was a grey cloaked figure standing with his arms cross. The tip of a beard revealed the individual to be a man, and he waved Sha'l to come hither. Walking past the unresponsive persons training, he walked up the steps to meet the man beckoning him. "Spindrall, I presume?" "Hmf, that seems more an observation than a question. Slave, welcome to my humble hole. You are here for your trial, yes? Learn the ways of the Sith from a doddering old man in a tomb? And hopefully to return to your master with the mark of my approval." His voice sounded as old as the man looked, wrinkled and worn by time and toil. However, Sha'l could feel the man in the Force and decided Zash was right to respect him. There was a sort of eddy around him, a touch of something not quite in the here and now. The sounds of metal battering wood faded away as if the humanoids below were behind a thick locked door. "You must pass a trial of blood, survive, and I will teach you what I know." As he said this, the rim of Spindrall's hood fell closer to his face as he spoke, as if being blown by some breeze that Sha'l could not feel or hear. "Those practicing below are failed acolytes. Fight them to the death and whomever stands before me next shall pass this trial." Sha'l felt his shoulders clench and his face flush. The idea that failed acolytes could best him somehow seemed more offensive than laughably. He wondered whether Spindrall was bolstering any latent arrogance he held, or if perhaps he just felt more himself, more solid in the hermit's presence.

He walked down the steps and the shadow failures turned and slowly stepped towards him with their guards up. Fear. That was the reason he found the slimy slugs more intimidating than the Force-Sensitive humanoids. They're afraid. Afraid of him, of failure, of injury, of death. Fear can be a powerful tool, but only when you control it, and not the other way around. He could feel a hint of desire under their anxiety; a hunger for power, for recognition. In response his need for ascendancy, for freedom born of power arose from within his breast. His heart slowed down but each pulse of blood made his neck and forehead pulse visibly. The first one lunged at him, four of them forming a square around him, with each attacker as a corner. He stabbed the first one with his vibrosword and then let go of the hilt, leaving it embedded in their chest. The Dark Side was strong here, it whispered to him, wafting along his arms like the soft fingers of a piano teacher laying their hands over your own to play the keys. He forced himself to remember the pain he'd felt when his father died, the madness that had overtaken him a year after that when his mother had died. The grief mixed with the hunger and anger and the residual disgust from earlier, and even the desire for rest after such a long morning. Then he threw all that toxic emotion, all that raw passion into a ball in his chest, and let it build. A moment passed that felt like an hour and he let that raw need out of his arms. Force Lightning, darted out from his fingers, from the palms of his hands, his fingernails warped and burnt as the white-blue bolts seemed to tear his pores open. The three cowards who held their blades but inches from his neck and forehead? They lifted off the ground as his power shot down their muscles and nerves over and over again. As if in a fog of cathartic release he heard bones break and casually wondered whose they were. His eyes began to focus again, the guidance of the Dark Side drifting away as easily as it had come. The two remaining would be acolytes turned and ran. His nostrils flared in contempt of their cowardice and he tore at his appetite for power once more. He'd expected the well to run dry, but if anything his lust for conquest was greater than before. _Hunger grows with eating_ , he wistfully remembered his father saying often. Power spread through him like droplets of blood blossoming as they hit water, and lightning arced from his fingertips into the backs of his retreating enemies. They stumbled, stiffened and slammed against the stone. He floated in a cloud of humour, spiritual morphine coursing through his veins, and his hands slipped over the hilt of the sword between the ribs of his first human victim on Korriban. He had never turned the weapon off, so the vibrations had kept it free of blood; kept it free of moisture in general actually. He hopped over to the two weaklings flopping about on the ground, limps flailing about as if he'd pinned them like insect specimens to a wall. He drove the blade into the brain stem of the closest annoyance and it stopped pathetically flapping its arms and legs. He thought he heard the other one whimper as he pulled the sword free of its associate and walk over to repeat the act. But perhaps it was just his imagination. A moment later and none of the six obstacles remained in his path.

He walked up the steps and Spindrall place a hand on his shoulder. "Excellent. These former acolytes wanted nothing more than to earn their second chance for glory by killing you and taking your place. But your desire proved stronger, and their blood became the mantle of your victory." Spindrall seemed unsurprised at his success; of course with such frail opposition, failure had been almost impossible. "I shall now teach you the Sith Code: Peace is a lie, there is only passion, through passion—" Sha'l cut him off. "I gain strength, through strength I gain power, through power I gain victory, through victory my chains are broken, the Force shall free me," Sha'l finished Spindrall's recitation. "Interesting. You already know the Sith Code. Who taught you this?" his inflection and softer voice made Sha'l think he was genuinely interested. "The deceased Lord Medriaa, he had me learn the code and the Sith language as I have great ability with languages," Sha'l tried to sound modest as he spoke. "He taught you to speak in the native tongue of the first Sith? Now that is most interesting." "Nwûl tash," Sha'l said offhandedly. "Very well then acolyte! I have a lesson more suited for your particular skillset and temperament I think," the hermit was smiling, but the smile did not reach his eyes. If anything, his aged eyes seemed to squint and glare at Sha'l. Spindrall's grip on his shoulder started to dig into the muscle, his bony fingers proving quite strong. Sha'l heard an echo call his name and crushed the urge to turn his head. His mother's voice was laughing now, telling him to turn around and give her a hug. Sha'l focused on the image of her corpse when he'd found it. When he'd seen what had been done to it and when he first embraced the Dark Side. Or rather, when the Dark Side had embraced him. If not a test then it was either an insult or a mere consequence of whatever power the prophet was using to study him. The latter possibility made him apprehensive. Spindrall smiled warmly, like a kindly old uncle and responded to his concern. "Do not be timid. Humility is the attitude of a slave, not a Sith." After speaking, Spindrall turned away and sat down on a rock, waving Sha'al away.

Less than half an hour later he stood in front of the Sith Academy. Finally, it was time to enter the vaunted institution of occult learning and enlightened cruelty. He watched a red skinned acolyte of a similar age pass some guards who bowed deeply. As he passed them he saw that they seemed to bow much slower, and only half as deep. His frustration brought a taste of blood to his mouth; and then he realized he was quite literally biting his tongue to avoid swearing at them. Still, once he stood before the giant Sith Obelisk in the center of the academy, all the petty little annoyances since his arrival fell away. The room seemed to darken and Sha'l closed his eyes, naked before the power and grandeur of such a magnificent testament to the greatness of the Sith. He opened his eyes and used the Force to locate Kory and the other acolytes.

Harkun stood in the middle of the room, his hands clasped behind his back as he grinned showing his teeth at the assembled acolytes. "Aaah, the last one. Always the latecomer. Now we can see what hermit thinks of you slime." The so-called latecomer suspect that no one else had bothered shoring up support with the local regiment, something that he had already plotted several ways to exploit at a later date. "Hmm, Acolyte Kory, step forward please. "You are a weak, pathetic rodent, and even a lunatic like Spindrall can see this." Her head fell to her chest and she rolled it back and forth, as if trying to escape his words. "And that means…" Harkun raised his right hand and extended it towards Kory. White-blue lightning seemed to leap from his fingertips, striking Kory with a slight flash of light. Her muscles spasmed and contracted so severely that she stood jerking on the balls of her feet. Her fingers twitched like an ant that had been partially crushed and was thrashing about. It was almost a relief when Harkun stopped and she fell dead to the floor. Almost.

Harkun grinned at the sight of his murder victim, a slight bulge showing in his trousers. "Meet our newcomer, Ffon Althe. This is real Sith strength, and he will tear you apart and crush your bones, slaves. Look on him. No connections left in the world but pure Sith blood. This…this is Lord Zash's future apprentice, not filth like you." At least regarding this Ffon fellow, Harkun wasn't entirely mistaken. He could feel the Pureblood's power; like he was a mass of coiled durasteel, ready to spring forward at any moment. This Ffon was stronger than he was at the moment, and Sha'l couldn't help but let right side of his mouth curl into a half-grin as he looked forward to planning his demise. His gaze flickered back to Kory's corpse as it stopped smoking. And just like that, his smirk fell and his shoulders sank as he let out a soft sigh.

 _The weak will always be victims. That is the way of the universe. The strong take what they want and the weak suffer at their hands. That is their fate; it is inevitable._

-Darth Bane. 980 BBY


	3. Question & Answer

**Chapter Three: Question & Answer**

 _3643 BBY: Korriban_

" **M** eet this driveling excuse for an acolyte. He will be your victim." As Inquisitor Zyn spoke lines of his red tattoo turned into gaping dry wounds. "A little while ago there was what we call an 'unauthorized murder' at the academy." The acolyte seemed to jerk slightly against the metal clamps restraining him, skin begging to chaff and redden. Sha'al cocked his head and glanced at his victim.

"Is this our prime suspect?" Sha'al asked hesitantly. "No, he hasn't even passed his trials. Clearly he's not capable of any such thing. This fool made the mistake of bragging too loudly that he had witnessed the murder taking place. "This Zyn chap apparently isn't aware of the definition of murder – the unlawful, unjust killing of a sentient being. Murder is always unlawful is some respect, otherwise it wouldn't be murder. But somehow arguing the semantics of murder with Zyn didn't seem as productive as questioning the moaning figure on the cold hard slab, so he went to work.

After five minutes the interrogation was getting nowhere. Sha'al would nicely ask Alif who killed the other Acolyte, and Alif would keep saying he didn't know, or that he couldn't remember. Really it would be entertaining if he wasn't being watched as part of a test. Zyn pushed over his desk in his chair, and stopped next to Sha'al. He leaned in and whispered in his ear. "The art of interrogation – the inquisitor's art – is a delicate one. It is the art of manipulation, of pain, of control," Zyn smiled as he said this. Zyn's tattoos made his smile look like a macabre mask, like it was carved into his face. Perhaps it was, for he could see a faint glimmer of scars underneath the red ink. It would not surprise Sha'al that Zyn had been a subject on a metal slab somewhere, the tortured always seemed to make the best torturers. The best sadists all had a sort of twisted empathy in them, allowing them to truly torment their victims. Drawing on his memories of the past, and the pain he'd suffered he pushed through his compassion and focused on making Alif squirm. Not making him answer the questions, just hurting him as much as he could be hurt. Very soon answers started flowing forth from his victim. In fact, he suspected he'd have to torture him to stop him from sharing his life story.

Sha'al turned to Zyn as his victim bled out secrets, hoping the Inquisitor was writing the information down. Zyn blinked at him, and spoke softly, "I heard the name loud and clear, though I sorely wish I hadn't: Esorr Kayin. Kayin's master is a Dark Council member." Sha'al turned back to Alif and leaned over him, hunching to try and hide the regret-filled frown on his face from Zyn. Harkun would have a field day if he knew how much this torture was affect him. "Then let's not speak the name aloud again. There will soon be two dead acolytes and I will have an excellent evaluation for Harkun."

Sha'al sympathized with the unfortunate Acolyte, but if he let his compassion run free, he'd inevitably be crushed like the doomed thing on the durasteel slab. The strong do not always survive, but the weak never do. He stopped shocking his victim for a moment; Alif's head slumped slightly to the far side, hair obscuring his face. The hidden visage could belong to anyone; his father against the tree, his mother red trickles making their way down her face, Kory smoking as Harkun gazed with satisfaction at his work. He caught himself gritting his teeth and glanced over at Zyn – the man didn't seem to have noticed his reticence. He forced himself to not feel responsible for the unfortunate soul whose life he was almost certainly going to ruin.

"Hmm. Perhaps you do not have as much to unlearn as Harkun believes," Sha'al felt annoyance at anyone wonder if that was the case. Harkun is a frothing at the mouth fool. _I am going to be ten times the Sith he ever was._

There was no saving the Acolyte from whatever fate a Dark Council member would inflict upon him. The best he could do was to give him a brief reprieve before his presumably unpleasant demise. He increased the voltage and kept his finger pressed firmly on the button. As he convulsed his eyes slowly rolled back in his head. Sha'al took his finger off the button and stared down at the unconscious body. He'd never realized there was such a difference between unconscious and sleeping until he'd seen the doomed man-boy on the torture rack. It was like every muscle in him was cut somehow, his face slackened and breathing almost imperceptible. Perhaps he would be lucky enough to never again open his eyes, to sleep until the Darth's assassins – whoever they would be – pierced his ribcage with a lightsaber and he exhaled his last bitter breath.

"Yes, it's so hard to stop once you've gotten started isn't it?" Zyn either didn't know he'd shocked his victim until darkness took them as a mercy, or he chose to hide his awareness. The possibility of a negative evaluation bothered him less than it had ten minutes ago. The room also seemed darker somehow, as if his eyes had adjusted to the harsh light. An idea occurred to Sha'al; that perhaps the lights were so bright, not only to discomfort the victims, but to ensure that the interrogators could see after staring at their own Force Lightning for so long. The perverse pragmatism of the idea didn't bother him. He felt dull and numb, as if he'd lost more blood than Alif.

He walked slowly down the corridor, back to Harkun. The overseer was gnashing his teeth and sending off the other acolytes, instructing them to go to the training room upstairs. Harkun took the evaluation from him wordless and spat on it. "Zyn must be going soft. But that doesn't mean you're off the hook. I want you to take their flaccid body up to the training room on the second floor. Just because you're a weak slave doesn't mean you have to look so pathetic." He stared at Harkun and gritted his teeth. "I think you have me confused with someone else. I suspect that I'm in far better shape than you have ever been," he was surprised by the anger in his voice. He'd previously tried to play it safe and not antagonize Harkun, but somewhere between Kory and Alif he'd started having to restrain himself from trying to strangle the dogmatist.

He walked up the stairs filled with loathing and frustration, his anger detracting from his focus. As a result he bumped into a Lord on the second floor and stopped to apologize. When he turned to enter the training room he heard the acolytes from earlier speaking. "When do you think he'll arrive?" asked a male voice. "Soon, I hope. Once he's dead we can finally leave these trials and go home. Harkun hates us and there's no way we'll beat Ffon," a female voice replied.

Sha'al cracked his neck and activated his vibrosword. If their deaths were certain no matter what, he'd end them quick. And maybe throw their severed heads in Harkun's face to see if bloodstains made his excuse for facial hair less nauseating. He walked into the training room and drew on every fresh wound he'd endured since landing early that morning. His emotions rolled and bubbled like a steaming hot ocean and his vibrosword flew out of his hands, killing the first two instantly. More importantly, it killed them painlessly. The last one turned to run and as soon as Sha'al felt a slight regret that the wounded animal had time to felt pain, he'd already started draining his regret into his fingers, lightning throwing them into a crumpled heap against the wall. After all, it wouldn't do for them to be running about the Academy screaming about their dead peers. Harkun would find some way to kill him for that. From what little he knew of the small-minded man, perhaps he'd think it funny to ensure he ended up on Zyn's slab?

He exhaled and inhaled deeply, the dark tunnel he'd been walking in since the interrogation earlier gone. Burnt away as lightning and murder. That was what he'd done wasn't it? Murdered those acolytes? Not much difference between them and Kory. He wondered why the thought didn't bother him much. Still, he felt more awake now. More focused, he couldn't afford to miss another obvious trap, let alone almost walk right into it. Harkun might actually stop underestimating him. Although he did feel that winning the Drooga Gourmet Cook-off on Nar Shaddaa seemed more likely.

Harkun was seated at his desk and had placed a short foot stool in front of it. He motioned at Sha'al to sit without looking up. Perhaps he wanted to pretend he was surprised that Sha'al had survived, but it would be a poor performance, it is hard to mistake three people for one person. He kicked over the foot stool and spoke, his voice deep and low. "The more you make me hate you Harkun, the stronger I become. And one day very soon I'll be strong enough to crush you Harkun." Harkun stopped pretending to read his holoflimsi and looked up, his left eyelid switched as he stared at Sha'al.

"You'll never be strong enough _slave_." He opened a drawer in the desk and pulled out a holopad with a list of instructions and a map. There were photos of a tomb with a Holocron suspended inside a protective pyramid. The tomb's walls seemed less the brown-red brick that he'd seen in Ajunta Pall's tomb, and more that they'd rusted somehow, as if even rocks died in this morbid resting place. From Harkun he felt the same mindless hate he'd grown accustomed to, and something new, traces of confusion."Harkun, you're in the dark as I am, aren't you? You don't even know why you're giving me these tasks. Oh, I'd laugh if I didn't find it so pitiful." Harkun looked up and snarled before starting to speak, and Sha'al laughed and dashed out of the room. Let choke on his words, I'm done listening to him. For the first time in what seemed like days, the young Acolyte smiled.

He walked outside of the Temple and was greeted by the harsh light of Korriban's star. There was something _wrong_ about the sunlight on Korriban. A lurid taint to the light that seemed to stain shadows and give a bloodshot look to all human eyes. It was as if blood congealed beneath the sands like a scab and the sun reflected off the blood hidden beneath. As he walked towards the transport pad, a group of red cloaked men and women stood in silence in a circle around a grey clad Sith. He knew he was a Sith for two reasons; firstly, he could feel their presence simmering, secondly, because they had cauldrons on their shoulders. _I am going to dissect the brains of my foes over the years to determine what causes this madness. I shall not succumb to being a crime against fashion_. Sha'al had his priorities as well ordered as most Sith. The grey Sith turned slowly on his heels to face him and stood there watching him as he took the speeder to the Wilds.

 _Evil is a word used by the ignorant and the weak. The dark side is about survival. It's about unleashing your inner power. It glorifies the strength of the individual._

-Darth Bane, 980 BBY


End file.
